


Ad Astra

by BloodAndRosesBitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma, Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Human AU, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Pining, american!Crowley - Freeform, american!aziraphale, angst for like a chapter and a half, aziraphale is a customerphobic bookseller, because what else could he be, crowley has cptsd, crowley is an astronomer, for a little bit of the story, probably three chapters at most
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodAndRosesBitch/pseuds/BloodAndRosesBitch
Summary: Crawly is college student in Seven Oaks, Oregon, working part time at a local garden. His mother just burned their bridges for what he hopes will be the last time, and he's ready to be free to do what he wants to do with the small amount of savings that he has. What he doesn't expect, however, is to be swept up into the riptides of life, to meet a beautiful, strange man, and to all at once finally begin to feel alive.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley's looks are based more on the tv adaptation, but this being an AU, I have my own plans for their presentations.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the read!

Crawly had been studying the stars since he was six or seven. Even though he couldn't remember his exact age, or the exact day when it came to him the first time that being an astronomer was a real thing you could do to make money, he could remember the feeling of learning that there was something out there for him, and he could remember the catalyst of it all. It was a book his father brought him by chance, after the man had been away on a very long business trip. His dad couldn't remember whether Crawly liked pirates or dinosaurs or the Powerpuff Girls or Disney movies at that point in time, so in some misguided attempt at love, had bought him a picture book about the stars. _Obviously_ , his dad had said, _Everyone likes stars._

  
While Crawly thought this could be considered categorically false, he was also grateful for the gift some five years later when he picked it up because of an essay "on a subject he didn't know anything about" he was forced to write by his English teacher, on pain of failing the class.

  
That exact moment when he picked up the old book, that was the part he could remember. He was sitting on the carpet and had pulled the book from under his bed. For some reason he had kept track of it, unlike half the other things his dad brought him. The cover had a thick layer of dust on it, and when he whipped it off with the sleeve of his shirt his mouth formed into a small O. The picture on the cover was... well, pretty. Majestic, though he wouldn't have used that word as a kid. He opened it up slowly, like it was some kind of Pandora's box, like he was afraid that maybe he was going to unlock some hidden niche of his dad, something that might make Crawly forgive him, but he opened it anyway, right to the middle of the book, to a picture of a nebula, the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. 

  
It was titled, in tiny print by the side of the photo, almost so tucked into where the binding that he couldn't read it, "The Pillars of Creation."

  
And then with the kind of alighted wonder that was typical of children a little younger than him, he read until his mother yelled for him to come in for dinner. He wrote two different papers the next day, after reading the book twice, cover to cover, on the bus to and from school. He couldn't decide whether to turn in the one about Serpens, the constellation that held the Pillars of Creation, or Ophiuchus, and so he gave his teacher both.

  
She _adored_ them. She said wonderful things, and Crawly was enchanted by the way she spoke. Like he really was someone worth everything, like he had done something that actually made a difference.

  
He felt proud of something he'd done for the first time in his short life. But more importantly, or at least more memorably, he had found his compass. His "thing." His reason for getting out of bed in the morning.

  
It was the stars that kept him afloat. All through high school, when he didn't have friends. When he sat in the freaking bathrooms to eat lunch, like some knock-off of a teen flick. When he went to college as a business major, because his parents didn't see the worth in stars. Not even his dad, not anymore. The sky was there. It became almost a compulsive thing, to find the closest constellation. It made him remember that there were things that had existed for thousands of years out there, that his life wasn't going to end the whole world if it went a little wrong. These stars go out and we don't even know it for a little bit, and everything is alright. The world keeps turning.

  
Once he had finally convinced himself of that fact that nothing was going to end of the world, he came out.  
That's when a lot of things changed.

  
His mother finally decided for the second to last time that she wanted to have nothing to do with him, and he fell from her grace. A month later, his father decided, for the first time, to support her in her decision, and cut Crawly off completely. Said he was being toxic.

  
It wasn't like that didn't hurt to high heavens, all of that build up finally exploding without so much as bang, just a quiet phone call one day, but it did mean that Crawly was free. He couldn't help looking on the bright side, even if the light hurt his eyes.

  
Because for the first time, he really was free. Free to use the money he had saved by not going out with friends (because he didn't have any) during college and working a part time caretaker position at the local gardens (because his mother said he had to, or _else_ ) to get a degree in astronomy.

  
There was just one last thing he had to do.

It was a Tuesday in the middle of summer, and the weather was mild as summers usually were in Seven Oaks, Oregon. Crawly was at the garden to turn in his two weeks, just as soon as his manager, Karen, got in. He was usually the first person there, since he liked to come in early and get all the basics down. Then he could spend the rest of his day working solely on the plants.

  
He had his hair half up, half down, kind of messy. Kind of fem. It was how he liked to wear it, and it felt even better knowing that now it was all his. He wasn't hiding from anyone anymore, because the only people he would hide from had just said they would never see him again. He had on his gardening/hiking boots, flexible, sunglasses, Army surplus pants, and an over-sized button down, all in black. He'd found that black made him look more androgynous.

  
He unlocked the old iron gates, their creaking hinges first on the list of routine maintenance today, and walked over to the shed hiding in the corner behind some rhododendron bushes in full bloom. The inside was dark and cobwebby, despite the fact that during the summer he got in here almost everyday, and he had to scrap through loads of old things to find the oil can. 

  
Just as he was beginning to oil the hinges of that old gate, he heard the clickety-clack of stilettos on concrete, and looked up to see a looming shadow of a woman blocking out the sun. Her sundress was pink, the same color as the rhododendrons, and she had a huge hat on.

  
"Mom?" He heard himself say, and she stopped, pulled down her cheap white sunglasses with her pointer finger, and smiled at him.

  
"Crawly, my little demon, how are you?"

  
"What are..." Before he could find the proper words to explain how his head was reeling from her very presence, she smiled again, then pulled her sunglasses back up and placed her hands on her hips.

  
"I realized that you, calling us and telling us about this ridiculous identity crisis you've gotten yourself into was a cry for help. Of course. I'm, " She took a step closer, and leaned her elbows on the gate, which promptly let out an awful creak of what Crawly would like to believe was rage. "Sorry for how I treated you before. Families fight, and then we forgive and forget, though, am I right? Huggles?" She opened her arms, as if she had forgotten there was an iron gate between them.

  
"Mom." He took a step back.

  
He felt a stab of emotion run through him, like someone with blades on their soles stepped over his heart, made it leak out blood and go too fast and too slow at the same time, and he took a breath to steady his body, which had started to shake, though he wasn't sure whether it was out of anger or fear or sadness. He was almost certain he would faint before he could get the word out, but his mind was screeching for him to speak. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't speak. " _No_ , mom, it's not a cry for help. What do you think I even need help with?" There was a rush of adrenaline though his body, and he kept talking. "No. I'm genderfluid, mom. And you'd said you'd never speak to me again, so please," he blinked hard, so maybe he wouldn't cry in front of her. That was dangerous game. It said he was feeling things, it said he had doubt in his mind. "Just _go_."

  
She contorted her face like that was a terrible thing to say, and he supposed it was kind of terrible, and he felt terrible about it, but maybe it had to be said. Not maybe. It had to be said. He could rip up his own heart later, when there wasn't someone there to do it for him.

  
"You're barely worth the plane ticket over here," she snorted as she took a step back, then turned on her heel, walked back over to where a taxi cab was waiting, and climbed in without looking at him, shaking her head like she could change his mind with a single repeated motion.

  
Crawly desperately wished she would changed hers instead.

  
Before he could sit down on the concrete and wallow for the few minutes before the next employee, some girl named Sharon, was set to show up, he heard a voice that he'd never heard before. It was silken smooth, golden and perfect. Warm and buttery. The kind of voice that made you forget that you just had a fight with your mother. He hadn't realized there was anyone here yet.

  
"I'm sorry to eavesdrop, dear boy, but that sounded like it went down like a lead balloon," the voice said, and Crawly chuckled despite himself.

  
"Lead balloon, yeah. Gonna save that one for later," he muttered, and the voice let out a fluttery sigh that made Crawly's skin feel too light.

  
"Excuse me if this is too forward, but that looked... rough. Can I... assist you in anyway? Perhaps I could fetch some coffee or a scone for you?"

  
This made Crawly laugh a little bit more, and he turned around to face the sweet voice. For a moment, he was spellbound with wonder. The man had white blonde hair and was round, fat even, and he had kind blue grey eyes that seemed to light up when the sun his them. His mouth was worried and small, but Crawly already liked it. There was just something drawing about the man.

  
In less words, he was beautiful.

  
He was dressed in white, which Crawly might've thought was odd, but somehow it only added to his sudden amazement regarding the individual standing before him. White jacket, despite the summer weather. White shoes, white shirt.

  
It occurred to Crawly that he was about to fall in love.

  
"I apologize," the man said, taking Crawly's silence as a rejection, and started to walk away. "I'm rather silly sometimes, if you'll forgive me. I knew it was too much."

  
"No!" Crawly cried out, marching after him. "No, no, no, that's not it. I'd really like to get some coffee or something, actually. But only if I do it _with_ you. My treat," Crawly almost bit his tongue before he could say that last bit, but he couldn't stop himself.

  
The man beamed and wiggled around a little bit in his coat. Crawly felt his high cheeks go hot. It had been awhile since he'd straight out blushed, hadn't it?

  
"Splendid, dear boy! I'm Aziraphale, by the way," the man, Aziraphale, said, extending on of his hands. "When is your break?"

  
"Eleven," he answered, then gulped as he grasped Aziraphale's hand. It was warm, and much too soft, and Crawly didn't think he should notice these things so soon. "And I'm Crawly. Thought I should tell you, I'm not... exactly a boy."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "What are you, then?"

  
Crawly closed his eyes, and forced his hands to stay steady. He didn't want to lose this one. He really didn't. "I'm... a man shaped creature. Y'know?"

  
Aziraphale beamed again, then shook his head. "Not really, no. I'm fully male, myself. You'll have to tell me about it over coffee."

  
Crawly opened his eyes and he found his thin lips curling into a smile, despite himself. Despite how much pain he was in, there was this wonderful fully-man man named Aziraphale, of all perfect things, standing in front of him. Wanting to be his friend.

  
"Right," Crawly murmured, feeling his cheeks heat up. "Well, I've got some- er, work, you know, gotta get to it, so I'll see you then?"

  
Aziraphale gave him a little wave and a smile, and walked trough the gates, which, miraculously, didn't squeal. He got into a (unsurprisingly) white car and drove off, and as he did, he looked at Crawly for as long as he could without being in danger of crashing. Crawly thought he might faint, thought he might fly, thought he might suddenly discover he was dreaming, but he spent the morning walking, metaphorically, on air. Sharon and Karen and Daren all asked him what in the world had made him such a pleasure to be around all of a sudden, but he didn't tell. He felt too warm to speak very much.

  
And, Aziraphale was his right now, and he wasn't sure he wanted to share.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a pure joy to write!

Crawly had been anxious and jumpy all morning. He couldn’t tell whether he was more excited or scared or some terrible mix of the two, and Sharon and Karen and Daren had been making smart remarks for hours by now. He was about ready to dig a hole and bury himself alive, but as the minutes passed and it grew closer to eleven, he could barely hold a shovel, much less dig with one.

At eleven o’clock on the dot, a white car pulled up outside the gardens, sunlight reflecting off of its body. Crawly watched from the corner of his eyes as the kind man from before stepped out. He hadn’t been sure he would actually come back. His hair turned into an almost halo from the sunlight, and he stood with perfect posture next to the passenger side door, watching as Crawly transplanted the last of a batch of new poppies. He smiled when Crawly looked up for the first time, and waved, his hand a blur. Crawly waved back slowly, blinking from the glare of the sun.

Karen, who was helping him, looked from Aziraphale to Crawly, then squealed. “Ha! I knew you were different! You met a guy!”

Crawly rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the smile blooming all over his face. “Fine. Yeah, I met a guy.”

Karen slapped him on the back, harder than he would’ve thought was possible since she was about half his size. “Go on! I’ll finish up here, you old grump!”

“M’younger than you, but... thanks?” Crawly muttered, then started to walk away before turning around to mention that it was not, in fact, a date. Karen just rolled her eyes and smiled.

He strolled up to Aziraphale, trying to look calm and keep his legs from giving out.

“May I tempt you to a coffee?” Aziraphale asked, opening up the passenger side door and gesturing for Crawly to get in.

Crawly nearly grinned. “You’re all the temptation I need,” he said, then flung a hand over his mouth. “I mean… I didn’t mean to say that aloud.” Aziraphale laughed that beautiful, melting in a pool of sunshine laugh, and Crawly sighed. He glanced over at Aziraphale, who was beaming as he pulled out onto the street. “Hey, didn’t you have a different coat before?”

“Er, I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, you did, super white, looked expensive as anything?”

Aziraphale, for the first time in the five hours he’d known the man, blushed. He kept his eyes pointedly on the road. “Igaveitaway,” he mumbled, and Crawly blinked.

“What?”

“I... I gave it away,” he repeated, slower.

“You _what_?” Crawly could feel his heart skip a beat, his lips curl upwards without his consent.

“She was homeless, and expecting! And winter is coming, you know! I couldn’t not do something.” Aziraphale kept his eyes pointed on the road, but Crawly could feel the tension like a headache in the air. He looked around for something else to talk about, something that maybe wouldn’t destroy their friendship before they even had it.

"Alright, then. You do you. But you can't possibly be telling me you always drive like this," Crawly scoffed as he and Aziraphale practically inched down the street.

"It’s much safer this way. How do you drive, dear Crawly?"

Crawly looked at Aziraphale, then shook his head. "Don't," he muttered after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Aziraphale gave him a quick look in the rear view mirror. "Don't what?"

"I don’t. Drive, I mean."

"Ah, why, exactly?”

Crawly frowned at the man. “What is this, let’s share our insecurities hour?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were so sensitive about it.” Aziraphale’s voice was genuine and affected, and Crawly looked over at him, eyebrow raised. He was frowning at the street, but it was petulant more than hateful, and Crawly almost smiled. This man was almost cute when he frowned.

“S’alright,” Crawly murmured, half-hoping the man wouldn’t hear him. “M’little bit of a mess. Not little, really. You should know what you’re buying. M’a _huge_ mess. That’s me. Football field of a mess. Olympic swimming pool of a mess.”

Crawly wasn’t quite sure how to describe the sound that came out of Aziraphale’s mouth next, expect for absolutely, mind-blowingly adorable and somewhere inbetween a giggle and a cautious snort.

“That’s alright. I don’t mind messes,” Aziraphale said, and Crawly sighed, rubbing his eyes. How did he fall in with someone so sweet? No one was sweet to him. That was his thing. He got to be rude and grumpy because people mistreated him. If this one started being nice to him, then he would have to be nice, and then people would want to talk to him and be _friends_.

Then Crawly might get attached.

Which could only mean he had to do one thing: end whatever joyful romp this had been right now. “Hey, Aziraphale, I’ve got something… I guess I should say.”

“Of course, what is it?” A stab of pain goes through his heart as he looks at the man who has only ever been kind, nothing but beautifully kind.

“I can’t drive because my mother never let me learn. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Not your fault. You’re only being nice.” Sometimes Crawly couldn’t believe the ways in which his mouth betrayed him. He could’ve stopped this madness, and instead he was… kind to someone.

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied, his face softening. His voice was gentle as a dove’s wings. “I’m sorry.”

“Not yours to be sorry for.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes, until Aziraphale turned off onto a street that Crawly’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, despite living here for almost four years.

"What are you getting at, Aziraphale? Trying to murder me in the woods?" Crawly asked, grinning over at the man. He smiled back at Crawly and tittered, still a little subdued. Crawly wished he wouldn’t be. Hoped he hadn’t hurt Aziraphale.

“It takes connections to know about this particular café, actually,” Aziraphale replied. “And no, I’m not trying to murder you in the woods. I’m trying to take you to the best coffee in all of southern Oregon, so maybe next week you’ll want me to take you out again.”

Crawly very nearly choked on his own saliva. That sounded awfully like a proposal for a _date_. “Alright,” he somehow got out. “Sounds great.”

Aziraphale slowed down, then parked. Crawly looked out the window to see a small beige and white building that looked like Aziraphale might have just built it himself. There was a small chalkboard sign out front that said “Inanna’s Coffee” with a list of specials for that day.

Crawly blinked warmly, then nodded. "Let's get on with it, then?"

"Allons-y," Aziraphale replied, and Crawly frowned.

“What’s that?”

“It’s French! It means ‘Let’s go,’” Aziraphale said, getting out of the car and rushing to open Crawly’s door before he could.

“Huh,” Crawly said, stepping out and nodding to Aziraphale. “I’ll have to use that sometime.”

Inside the café, a waitress that winks at Aziraphale before she leaves lead them over to a table in the corner, with a window next to it that looked out over the sprawling mountain side, wild and beautiful.

“I’m afraid I may have put too much pressure on you to spill your heart to a perfect stranger, Crawly, and for that I must apologize,” Aziraphale says, bowing his head a little bit, looking at the table.

The waitress from before walks over to their table before Crawly can speak. “Here you two go,” she said, placing two coffees in front of them with the ease that only comes with years in the food service industry.

Aziraphale turned back to him after thanking the girl. “If it’s too much to tell me, I understand, believe me. I’m not sure coming up to you was the… right thing to do. But I would love to know about you, and if you need a kind ear, I’m perfectly amiable.”

Crawly shifted in his seat. It wasn’t a pleasant thing, this weight in his chest that had been there since he’d last spoken to is mom. _That was just this morning_ , he told himself. Somehow it already felt like it had happened days or even weeks ago. It was just a foggy thing in the back of his brain. Crawly let his body relax a little bit, then rested his chin on his hand and smiled softly at Aziraphale.

The mom thing was too much to face right now. He just knew it. He wasn’t ready, not so soon after. But he didn’t want to give this sweet, pretty, divine man a reason to leave. Gotta keep up conversation, then.

“I don’t think someone like you can do the _not_ right thing. How’d you get so sweet, anyway?” He asked, dodging Aziraphale’s question so obviously even the painfully polite man sitting in front of him had enough decency to glower vaguely in Crawly’s direction before looking flattered and speaking.

“My parents were very strict about the things I had to do to make it in this world. Kindness was one of them.”

“D’you ever get that urge to just go crazy?”

“What could you possibly mean?” Aziraphale asked in such a way that made Crawly think that he knew exactly what he meant.

“Oh, get stuck on technicalities to piss someone off. Glue a coin to the sidewalk. That kind of thing.”

Aziraphale laughed, then pushed a hand to his mouth to stop himself. “I would never,” he said, sounding like he was trying to sound offended, but it came off low and sweet, the kind of sound Crawly could play on repeat everyday of his life and never get sick of. “I’m not sure you do, either.”

Crawly scoffed. “Of course I do! S’in my _blood_.”

“You’re not convincing me.”

“You must be one of those lost causes, then. I’m rude. If rudeness was a crime, then I wouldn’t be able to vote!”

Aziraphale let out a small snort-laugh and rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re reminding me of one of those annoying little dogs that barks very loudly then starts to wag their tail when you get close enough.”

“I hope you like those little dogs, then,” he mumbled, all of a sudden his mind reminding him that he wasn’t a necessity to have around and he should probably keep his smart mouth shut. 

Aziraphale took a sip of coffee, then gave Crawly a strange look. “I believe I didn’t until I met you.” He said, tugging on his cuffs. “Would you like to tell me about your partially man-ness now? Or shall we reserve that for a happier day in the future?”

Crawly sighed and slouched back into the wooden chair, taking up as much space as he could manage. “Depends if you feel like a long story or not.”

Aziraphale smiled softer, back at Crawly. “I love long stories.”

Crawly took a breath. He wasn’t used to talking about his… things with… people. It was surprisingly nerve wracking, the thought that Aziraphale could get frustrated or annoyed and walk out, just leave Crawly in the cold, and he might never see the man again. Crawly, for the first time in his life that he could remember, viciously didn’t want to be alone. He was introverted, and didn’t mind being lonesome or existing without many friends, but there was just something about being near Aziraphale that felt… good. Like things were working out. 

“Okay, okay.” He looked Aziraphale in the eyes. “I’m gonna do this.” Aziraphale smiled at him gently and nodded. “Okay. When I was fifteen, in ninth grade, my high school had the GSA club present an informational… y’know, thingy on gender and sexuality. And most of my friends at the time were these cishet asshole guys who thought they knew everything about everyone. So they made a lot of fun of the thingy, but I… just couldn’t. For the first time in my life, I realized that making fun of people who were different than me wasn’t actually that funny. It was because of this queer girl. She talked to me before the presentation, like she could tell I didn’t fit with the people around me, or even with myself, and she was so kind. She asked me to come to the GSA’s next meeting. And then she went up to the front of the class and started going on about gender and how many different kinds there are, and how we should all be kind to each other, but I remember there was something she said about being fluid, how you can be more than one at a time, and how you can be nothing, and I just sat there like I was in a coma the whole time, and she smiled when she left, and I remember how I didn’t go to the meeting because I was scared, but I can still hear her voice saying “ _genderfluid_ ” because that’s what I am, but I didn’t come out until I was a junior in college, and- oh my God I’m rambling,” Crawly mumbled at last, blinking and shaking his head.

Aziraphale closed his eyes after Crawly was finished talking and sat for a few long moments in silence. Crawly let his head collapse onto the table. Maybe he should just give up this “I’m different” gig. He was probably just pretending so he could have a reason to hate his mother, because he knew she’d react like… she did. If a beautiful, clearly kind man couldn’t accept him like this, then who was he kidding?

“Oh dear, that’s the most eloquent way anyone has ever come out to me.”

Crawly looked up from the table and Aziraphale was beaming again; _Lord, if he keeps beaming with enough to light up this whole damn room, I might actually pass out from joy._

“It was gibberish. You can’t possibly have gotten anything out of it,” Crawly said, running his hands through his reddish orangish curls.

Aziraphale just laughed, then took a sip of his coffee. Crawly found it awfully enticing somehow to watch the man drink, to watch his throat- that was enough. No use in mooning.

“So do you have specific pronouns you need for me to use, or a different name?” Aziraphale asked, and Crawly blinked in surprise. No one had asked him that before.

“Am I allowed to switch names?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes. If you wish. You can do anything that makes you feel more like you.”

“Crawly’s never really been my style,” Crawly muttered, then nodded. “I’ll have to think of a new one. I’ll let you know, alright?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “Pronouns?”

“He/him and they/them are fine… I guess I’ll let you know which days to use which ones.” It felt weird to Crawly to be acting like Aziraphale would stick around for longer than a few months, but what if he did? He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of glory that would be, to have someone stay.

Aziraphale nodded, then grew serious all of a sudden. “Listen, dear Crawly. If you ever need _anything_ ,” Aziraphale murmured, leaning forward towards Crawly, _achingly_ close to him, but not close enough. Crawly reminded himself that Aziraphale gave away his pretty white coat to a stranger. Crawly was no one special. Aziraphale was just kind. Kindest person he’d ever met. But that wasn’t important. “And I do mean anything, whether it be a companion, a friendly ear, or a safe place to go, please call me.” He grabbed a napkin off the table and a pen from somewherein the depths of his new beige jacket, and scrawled out a number in halfway illegible script.

Crawly gulped as Aziraphale took one of his hands and pressed the napkin into it, looking him in the eyes the entire time.

They sat like that for what could’ve been an hour or five seconds, just looking at each other. Aziraphale drew back and cleared his throat, shaking his head a little bit as if to get all of the Crawly out.

“What do you think of the coffee?” Aziraphale asked him, and Crawly looked down at his mug. He hadn’t touched it.

“I’ve been thinking, sorry. I hate thinking. It’s boring,” he grumbled, then took a sip.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Crawly nodded, then hunkered down to watch as Aziraphale drank. He couldn’t seem to ignore that bit of fire in his belly he felt whenever Aziraphale made one of those practically dirty moans about the texture or the taste. It seemed strange to him that someone could be so open about their love of something just hours after meeting someone.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale called, breaking Crawly out of a reverie. “Jenny?”

The waitress from before trotted over to them, and Crawly realized that she must be the only one working here right now. Not like it was a hard job, though. It was a small restaurant, and as Crawly began to look, he also realized that no one else was in the café at the moment. Aziraphale must’ve been telling the truth when he said you had to have connections to get in.

“Yeah Aziraphale?”

“May I have one of your croissants? I’m starving for a sweet.”

“Coming right up,” Jenny answered, then turned to Crawly. “Would you like anything?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head.

She nodded and walked off the to kitchen.

“What’s your favorite kind of pastry?” Crawly asked, and Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, then pursed his lips and smiled.

“Oh, dear, I’m afraid if I go into it I may not be the best of conversationalists. When I get to speaking of things I love, well, it takes a long time for me to stop.”

Crawly took a breath and decided to take the hopeful route in his answer to that comment. “Maybe we’ll have to have a meal just for that? I can take you out to dinner, we’ll spend an hour or two discussing your love of pastries, yeah?”

Aziraphale looked like he was very nearly about to faint, with this wide, almost drunken smile on his face and his currently grey-ish green eyes suddenly going very bright. “You’d indulge my hedonism?”

Crawly laughed. “I _love_ hedons. They make everything more fun.”

Aziraphale blushed for the second time of the day, and looked at his hands, then gave one of those happy wiggle-y motions that made Crawly want to hug him. Crawly nearly blushed at his own thought, _hugging_ someone. Ugh. How long had it been since he’d wanted to do that?

“Very well, you foul tempter! You’ve ensnared me with your serpent-esque wiles, and so I shall go out to dinner with you. When are you available?”

“Hmm… Literally everyday and every time except for six to eleven a.m. Monday through Thursday.”

Aziraphale nodded, then broke into a smile. “How does tomorrow sound, then?”

“Perfect,” Crawly said, smiling back. “I’ll pick you up at eight, take you to my favorite place?”

It occurred to Crawly that he should’ve been vastly more concerned with how much these sounded like date plans, and how much he truly wanted them to be, but there was too much good energy in the air for him to care.

“Perfect,” Aziraphale repeated back at him. “I live on St. James Road, in the backroom of the A. Z. and Fell bookstore.”

“So that’s what you do, then? Sell books?” Crawly asked, and Aziraphale nodded.

“Indeed. Books, particularly first edition books of prophecy are my true passion, though I suppose if you want to hear anymore about them you’ll have to tempt me for another dinner,” Aziraphale said, smirking, against the laws of human interaction, politely.

Crawly scoffed. “Oh, yes, I figure I will. Wednesday, same time?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Temptation accomplished!”

Crawly nearly cringed at the pure _Aziraphale_ -ness of the phrase, then wondered if he had the right to call anything out on its Aziraphale-ness, since he had only known the man for a few hours.

Jenny walked out, a small plate with a croissant on it in hand, and set it down in front of Aziraphale. “There you go, sir.”

“So, Crawly, what do you do, other than work in that Eden?”

Crawly looked out the window, at the sky. “Well, I want to study stars.” He pressed his fingers to the pane of glass and sighed. “However, until I drop out at the beginning of next school year, I’m a business major. I’m not even sure if the college I’m going to has an astronomy program, and I don’t know how much it’ll cost to move, but I’m determined to do it. I don’t think I can do anything but it. If I go into business, honestly, I’m going to kill myself.”

“How are you saving up money? I’ve always been skilled with finances, perhaps I could help?” Aziraphale looked at him, his eyebrows and mouth pure lines, like money was something serious in his mind, but those questions just made Crawly’s heart pound and his hands suddenly need to fidget with his sleeves. This man had to have been sent from Heaven or some other higher place.

Aziraphale hummed in amusement. Crawly let himself get carried away by the sound of his hum, let his mind linger on that soft, deep note. Let himself think how much of a wonder it would be to do something crazy with this man. Live life, with this man. Wake up next to this man and sneak out of bed to make him whatever his favorite pastry ends up being. Buy a house somewhere they both fall in love with, with _this specific man_.

Wonderful, amazing, everything. Too good to imagine. Too big, too beautiful.

Just to have something to talk about, Crawly asked Aziraphale. “Hey, what’s that word for something that’s too big to be expressed in words?”

Aziraphale paused, then a moment later answered, his voice slow. “I believe it’s ineffable.”

_Ineffable. That would be the word for us, if there was an us to speak of_ , Crawly thought, then looked back out at the mountains and sky, and wondered what good could come of wanting to be with someone as much as he wanted to be with Aziraphale.

The rest of the day, even after he left Aziraphale’s glowing presence, the word ran through his mind, pounding his skull like a drum. Ineffable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicide mentions tw for this chapter. Much shorter than the last one too!
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr @asublimelimbo!

The night was warm and dark and overall, quite pleasant, and yet Crawly couldn't seem to get to sleep. You'd think it would've been easy. He'd a day of days, he was tired right down to his very bones. His mother had rejected him again. He handed in his resignation at the gardens. He met Aziraphale. 

His mind was screaming with _things_. Things about Aziraphale, things about his mother, things about where in the world he was going to go to college for astronomy next year.

But mostly, that pain in his heart that had seemed so small earlier, when he was working and when he was with Aziraphale, had grown a little bit. Well, not exactly a little bit. A lot bit. He clenched his teeth every once in awhile, as if that could fix his problem. It never seemed to, unfortunately.

Crawly sat up in bed and scrunched the covers around his body, then blinked a few times before shaking his head and yawning. He felt like he was about to drown in all this... everything.

His name. He needed a name that didn't reek of something gone wrong, of his family, of everything that he absolutely was not. It needed to be strong, unique. It needed to feel right.

Anthony Crowley.

It came to him in one big swoop of thought. Anthony Crowley.

It felt good, alive, right. It felt like growing.

"Anthony Crowley," he said out loud, louder than he really had to, and almost smiled.

And then he remembered why he needed a new name. And he remembered his mother. Why did she not need him like he needed her? Why did she insist on being that obstinate, hazy but too bright void of a human being to him? Why did she feel like she could push him around, then expect him to _hug_ her? Why didn't she change? Why did she even keep existing in his life?

Why did Anthony keep existing?

All of a sudden, he felt suffocated again. He felt nauseous, and his stomach was making noises. He blinked. All of the energy was gone from his body, his arms and legs suddenly more like lead and mercury than flesh and blood. _What happened,_ he asked himself, silently, _to Anthony freaking Crowley?_

No answer. Not surprising. He left people on read every other day, when there was a text to leave on read. Often there wasn't.

He let himself flop onto his back and look at the ceiling. There was a part of his brain nagging him to stay in bed and lie there and hate everything (but mostly himself) until dawn and then go eat the five uncooked Pop-Tarts he had in the pantry, and there was a part of his brain nagging him to call Aziraphale, because the man had said if he needed anything he should call, and Anthony needed quite a lot right now, and there was a part of his brain nagging him to go jump in the river that was a few miles from his apartment.

None of these seemed like great options.

However, one of them seemed better than the rest, so Anthony wrangled himself out of bed, slowly but surely, got all his limbs in (sort of) proper working order and searched through his army surplus pants in his hamper to find the phone number. It was weird, the thought that he was contacting someone on purpose. He had made plans with Aziraphale, for the future. They were doing... normal friend things. It felt like he had... something to be there for. He had to show up for something.

Anthony wasn't entirely sure he'd ever had a normal friend relationship before, much less such a normal friend relationship that he, the not-straight one, managed to fall in love with his normal friend. Actually, Anthony considered as he dialed Aziraphale's number on his cell, did he know Aziraphale was straight, or did he just assume it? He supposed he hadn't actually asked the man, but with Anthony's luck the answer would be yes.

"Excuse me?" Aziraphale's voice crackled through, bright and warm despite the subpar speaker on Anthony's cell. "Who are you and why are you calling me at... three ante meridiem?" Anthony cringed at that, and briefly considered teasing him for it, then decided that he didn't feel like it.

"It's me," Anthony said, his voice hoarse from not speaking for hours. "Crawly. Well, I go by Anthony now. Anthony Crowley."

There was a slight pause, then a soft hum. "Anthony?"  
  
"You don't like it?"

"Oh, no, I'll get used to it," was the hasty reply, and Anthony nearly smiled. "Anthony Crowley," Aziraphale murmured. Anthony decided it was surreal to hear it coming from another mouth, but in a good way. He liked the way Aziraphale in particular said it, like his name really _mattered_. "It fits," He decreed at last, a smile through his voice. "Now _Crowley_ , why are you calling me at three in the morning? Oh, no, are you in trouble?" His voice took a slightly higher register, it seemed, when Aziraphale got worried. It was adorable. Crowley shoved that away for later.

"No!" He said, a little too quickly. "I mean, not really. I'm... not sure why I called you, actually." Anthony shut his mouth, then opened it again. Then he shut it. Aziraphale stayed silent, and Anthony could just barely hear his light breaths on the other end, ensuring that the man hadn't hung up. Finally, Anthony gathered the courage to say what he meant. "It just felt. Y'know. Right. Like something I should do."

"At three _in the morning?_ "

"You certainly don't sound like you've been sleeping either," Anthony pointed out, and he heard a self-conscious sound from the other side.

"I've got all caught up in my readings. I hardly even realized the time til I heard the phone ring. What's your excuse?"

Anthony snorted in some attempt to cover up the sudden prickle of tears at the back of his eyes, despite the fact that Aziraphale couldn't see them. "I've got no excuse. I'm just a rebel. Like the night. Quieter."

Aziraphale's voice smiled again. "Me too."

Before Anthony could stop himself, he was talking again. That traitor of a mouth he had was going to get him in real trouble sometime, he just knew it. Loose lips sink ships, after all. "Actually, I was up 'cause I couldn't stop thinking. I don't like the night at all. If I could never see the night again, I wouldn't mind. I don't like that it's quieter. I hate it. I hate the silence. I can't stand it. I feel like I'm going to drown or something, you know? I need to get away, Aziraphale. Away from here. This godforsaken place, it's going to kill me." He was gesturing wildly with his hands at this point, about five seconds from throwing his phone across the room when Aziraphale interjected in that calm, _everything will be okay_ voice.

"Dear Crowley, please come over to the shop."

It took him a moment to process those words. An invitation. A friendly invitation. "O- okay," was all he could say before hanging up and running his hand through his messy hair a few times and pulling on something more appropriate than boxers. He walked outside and closed his eyes for a moment, relishing that feeling of fresh air after being inside for too long.

Seven Oaks was small, small enough that if you had long legs and didn't mind a bit of a walk you didn't really need a car, and Anthony had never had enough money to buy one anyway. He had enjoyed the feeling for being in a car with Aziraphale, but he didn't know if that was the effect of the car or of Aziraphale. Probably Aziraphale.

He might have been being a bit dramatic; he'd known the man for less than a day, but it always seemed to be Aziraphale now.

It took about fifteen minutes to get over to St. James road, and another two minutes after that to actually figure out where this A. Z. and Fell bookstore was, but soon enough he was knocking on the door, once, twice, and three times. There was soft, warm light pouring out from underneath the curtain and the muted sound of shuffling, and then Aziraphale opened the door. He was beaming again, and Anthony couldn't help smiling back, pushing his hands deeper in the pockets of the black cardigan he'd snagged before rushing out the door and looking almost sheepishly at the ground.

"Dear," Aziraphale said softly, stepping aside to let Anthony in. Before he knew it Aziraphale had closed the door and was leading him to the backroom, sitting him down and patting his shoulder and bringing him a cup of something hot and very sweet, wonderfully sweet, sweet like the man himself, and Anthony was sipping it a little bit and talking, but he couldn't really understand himself. All he really knew was the Aziraphale was sitting across the the couch from him and nodding a lot, like he understood (and you know, that's all that really matters, the understanding), and Anthony was crying for the first time in decades, because how do you cry when you're scared of everyone around you? And he was telling Aziraphale everything, because how could he not, and everything was going to be okay for the first time in years. Years, Crowley had spent like this. Feeling bad, suffocated, repressed.

That was all ending tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My school is starting today, so I'm not sure what the updating future of this work is going to be. I'll try to keep going every other day, but sometimes I may not get it done. Thank you all for bearing with me through whatever comes next, and I hope you all get to eat something you like today!

"My darling," Aziraphale said, and Anthony realized that over the few hours they'd been in each other's company that night, "Crowley" had morphed into "dear," or "dear Crowley," and that had morphed into Aziraphale calling him "my darling." It was a beautiful word, when said under Aziraphale's tongue. It sounded like a prayer or something holier. Anthony had never liked being called anything before, but this name could be his name for the rest of eternity, so long as Aziraphale was the only one who spoke it. If he were a snake, he would bask in the glow and heat of Aziraphale's breath when he said it. "Darling," Aziraphale said again, and left Anthony breathless, the way he said it, warm and slouchy and slurred. It made his fingertips buzz slightly.

The morphing of the name might have something to with the fact that both of them were quite extraordinarily drunk.

After Crowley had gone on for a little while, shared his deep darks with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale, surprisingly, understood well enough to offer some comfort, they had resolved to drink quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol, on Crowley's suggestion.

Aziraphale was quite the hedonist when you got right down to it, more than Anthony had expected him to be.

"You're a he..." Crowley started to say, then trailed off as he caught sight of Aziraphale's slightly pink lips closing around the rim of the wine bottle they had been sharing. "Yeah," he finished, after that train of thought collided with another one and killed everyone on board.

Aziraphale made an unseemly sound and closed his eyes, tilting his head back to finish off the bottle. "That's it for that one," he said, except it was slurred so much it sounded like he was just making sloshing noises with his mouth, and Anthony got the sudden urge to kiss the man senseless.

Being drunk, that's exactly what he did.

He got up, letting his limbs slide along languidly as he made his way from the chair he had been sprawled across to the chair where Aziraphale was sitting, prim and proper. Or, what would've been prim and proper if it hadn't been that he was slouched over and resting his head on the back, his mouth lolling open. Crowley sat down on the beige, rough carpet in front of Aziraphale, and leaned over so the top of his head was pressed against the other man's shin. He stared at the carpet and contemplated how he was supposed to kiss Aziraphale from way down here.

The air in the backroom had gone fuzzy on Crowley's skin, and when he shut his eyes he could hear his pulse louder than ever, feel the skip in his pulse when his heart broke. Broke because he realized, in a surprisingly clear train of thought, that this night or a night like it, would never come again. It was a pearl in the middle of the oyster that was Crowley's life, and he was going to hold onto it for as long as fucking possible.

"Darling," Aziraphale said for the third time in the space of five minutes. "Why've you relocated your... thing?"

"M'gonna kiss you," Anthony replied, blinking for a long moment, then looking up at Aziraphale, who was looking down at him, eyes big and slightly brown in dim lamp light. He blinked slowly, then seemingly unconsciously ran his tongue over the front of his top teeth and his bottom lip. Crowley felt like that was too much right now. Crowley did nothing.

"Really?" Aziraphale asked, and Anthony nodded, but it came off a lot like a controlled drooping of his head, like he was falling asleep and waking up. "Thank God! I was waiting for you to make a move," he slurred, throwing his hands up into the air and letting the wine bottle fall to the ground and shatter into these little chunks of glass. To the inebriated, hopelessly lovesick Anthony, the chunks looked like little pieces of the stars. He smiled.

"Bastard," Anthony muttered, and Aziraphale huffed. "Sweet bastard of a man."

"Nice... man person." and then Crowley was up, albeit unsteadily, looming over Aziraphale.

"'M not nice! I'm mean, evil, unholy... like a... a demon, y'know!"

"Deep down," Aziraphale murmured in that deep, slurred voice of his that Anthony would've been sure was too sexy to belong to someone like Aziraphale if he wasn't also sure that Aziraphale was more of a bastard than he thought. "You're a _nice_ man slash person. I can tell because you look at me..." Aziraphale frowned, then made a sweeping gesture with his hands. "Like I'm the _moon_." The way he said nice made Anthony feel like he had warm sludge in his belly. In a good way.

And then, too quickly for even Crowley himself to register, he was pushing Aziraphale up against the back of the overstuffed chair and bumping their noses together, snarling. Aziraphale looked at him, his face stoic as ever, unimpressed by Crowley's clearly very manly show of strength.

"Not so great a flirt now, are you?" Aziraphale mumbled, smiling languidly at Anthony. Crowley let go of his lapels to use his hands in some other, better way; to brush Aziraphale's jaw bones with his fingertips, to glance his hands over that softness that was Aziraphale's cheeks and chins and neck. Aziraphale closed his eyes as Crowley stroked his face, his whole posture softening and relaxing like maybe he was enjoying this every bit as much as Crowley.

A light pink blush, a little lighter than Aziraphale's lips, spread across his cheeks in a matter of seconds as Anthony curled his hands around the other man's head, threading his fingers through white gold hair that he swore was a halo. He tilted Aziraphale's head upwards slightly, and Aziraphale, slack and smiling, let his lips drop open revealing small hot breaths.  
Crowley blinked, then paused his touching of Aziraphale's above-the-shoulders area.

"I just had a thing, y'know in my. My head," he murmured, and took his hands off the angel- off of Aziraphale. Aziraphale made an adorable little disgruntled noise, but engaged him in conversation nonetheless.

"Yes?"

"We're wasted."

"Yes."

"And almost kissing."

"Yes." Aziraphale frowned at him, that adorable little line forming between his eyebrows. "Wait... Oh."

"Con- con... what's it? Saying yes. It's not... here."

"Oh," Aziraphale muttered, frowning harder. "I'm sorry," he slurred, and Crowley found himself smiling.

"Me too. Uh... bye bye?" He asked, and when Aziraphale nodded to him and grumbled out something vaguely reminiscent of a goodbye, he got up, stumbled over to a couch and collapsed, snoring within the minute.

Crowley woke the next morning with a headache the size of Texas and a blank space in his memories from the night before. He was passed out... somewhere. He gave the room a quick look, and immediately by the tartan blanket neatly placed over his body, he knew the place was Aziraphale's... something. Backroom. The man in question was no where to be seen, but Anthony assumed he was around. Probably. He sat up, readjusting so he wasn't halfway off the couch and groaned softly as his muscles ached. His back and legs and arms hurt like he'd fallen off of something very high.

He blinked slowly and another wave of pain from his headache washed over him. There was some chatter, a few voices from beyond the door. Anthony didn't move. He didn't feel like it. He didn't want to. Not sure if he would ever want to again. Sitting here, feeling bad. That was life now. Goodbye stars, goodbye pretty man, goodbye world.

Then the door opened and Aziraphale popped his halo'd head in, and Anthony felt his heart mutter a line of hopeful gossip to his nervous system.

"Ah, you're up," Aziraphale said, then stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. "Feeling better this morning?" He asked as he walked over to Anthony. Anthony Crowley stared at the man, couldn't take his eyes off of him, because how could you take your eyes off of someone so perfectly perfect as Aziraphale whatever-his-last-name-is? Him, in all his golden glow.

"Ngk," Crowley answered, and Aziraphale frowned.

"Sorry dear. I should've never let us get so intoxicated."

"Not your fault. I started it, by getting all mopey and feeling suffocated and all that," he mumbled, bumbling his way through the headache to get words out. Blinking slowly sometimes.

"Yes, well, at least neither of us got hurt," Aziraphale said, sitting down an appropriate distance away from Crowley and looking at him like he could touch the sun without getting burned. "But speaking of... how you feel, will you be leaving Seven Oaks, then?"

"Why'd I do that?"

"Because, last night, you were speaking of some great road trip. Something wonderful sounding, really. I think you said you wanted to take a gap year and travel across America."

Anthony had the sudden overwhelming urge to tell Aziraphale he loved him. To kiss him senseless.

Being sober, this is not exactly what he did. Instead: "Yeah, guess I am then. Leaving. Drunk me is so much more on top of my goals." He paused for a moment, considering it. Leaving Seven Oaks, that he wouldn't mind at all. But that also meant leaving Aziraphale. The kind man. His kind friend. His only friend. "You wanna come?" Traitor of a mouth, at it again. This time he didn't mind so much.

Aziraphale sputtered slightly, then did that little dance-y wiggle thing that made Crowley want to hug him and bury his face in his neck. Then he looked at the floor and tugged at his waistcoat, that freaking waistcoat that he wears twenty four seven. Crowley had a clear, close up picture of it in his mind and he could practically feel the texture of it underneath his fingers. He would've wondered why if his head had been slightly more clear.

"I'm afraid I can't," Aziraphale murmured, breaking Crowley out of his reverie about waistcoats and feeling them under his hands, and feeling Aziraphale under-

"What?"

"I said, I can't!" Aziraphale snapped, suddenly glaring at him like had suggested they kill kids. "If they knew I had been... fraternizing with you anyway, you know what they would do?" Crowley felt a twinge of pain in his heart. Fraternizing was such a cold word, and sometimes Crowley was that much more like a reptile. Too much cold could hurt him.

Instead of lashing out from the hot irritation under his skin, Anthony frowned. "Who's they, Aziraphale? Is everything okay? Is someone blackmailing you? I'll punch them. I don't care if it's an senior citizen. I'll punch 'em. I'll beat 'em 'til they're just a bloody little thing on the ground. I'll kick 'em 'til I go to jail, I'll-"

" _Anthony_ ," Aziraphale pleaded and Anthony paused, because how could he keep rambling on with his breath catching in his throat like that, all because of his own name? He tries not to focus on how much he likes it when Aziraphale says his name like he's desperate and instead focus on that clear, hard, _sad_ , look on his kind man's face that says that he really is desperate. "It's my grandparents, my dear. They control the money that supports my lifestyle. Otherwise I'd have to sell books for real. I can't sell my books, Crowley." He pauses for a moment after that, closes his eyes and takes a breath. "And I can't just run away like you can. They'd hate me if they even knew about you. They're not a fan of the more..." at that he gestures to his body, his clothes, himself in whole.

"I'll punch them, bunch a fuckin' idiots," Crowley offers at once, but Aziraphale shakes his head, bracing his chin with his hands. "D'you like it like this, the whole thing with them?" Aziraphale shook his head again, not quite looking at Crowley. "Then we'll find a way to do the trip together, yeah? If you want to. You saved me. It's my turn."

Aziraphale looked at him, fully, his eyes narrowing and going soft and pretty and Anthony wanted to kiss him so badly, wanted to do all the thing he knew he shouldn't want to do, wanted to hold his hand and wake up next to him and go on that fucking road trip.

"Really, my dear?"

Crowley nodded once, running his hands through his hair. "Yeah. Course." He wondered if he should've thought more before saying something so steady, so _I am ready to spend my life with you_ as "Of course," but that was just his mouth. His stupid stupid mouth.

Aziraphale took his hand and squeezed it gently, never breaking eye contact. "Thank you." Then he let go (too quickly, really) and stood, said something in clearly feigned mirth about not selling books, and walked off.

Crowley was ninety-nine percent sure his heart was about to shut down due to kindness overload.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time has been escaping me, as of late.

The day after Anthony had accidentally spent the night at Aziraphale’s, he woke up to rain drizzling outside his windows. It looked cold and wet. Gray clouds hung low overhead and the flora, green covered in water droplets, looked rather soggy and sad.

He wished Aziraphale would call him.

Rain and cold always made him feel… bad. It was hard to describe, and even harder for most other people to wrap their heads around, but being cold made him feel sickly and dysfunctional and depressed. Some might call it Seasonal Affective Disorder, some being the therapist he tried last year and his doctor, but he just called it being Anthony Crowley. It didn’t exactly help him to know why he felt bad, anyway, he just wished he didn’t feel bad and kept wishing and would keep wishing until he died. There wasn’t a whole lot to it.

Crowley looked at the black analog clock on the wall across from his bed. It read eight seventeen. He didn’t feel like a man today. They felt like something outside, something deep and subdued.

Anthony sat up, quickly pulled their thickest, wolly-est blanket around their shoulders, and slouched over a little before sliding out of bed and onto the coal-colored carpet with bare feet. They walked to their small closet, dragging the blanket behind them and picked out an outfit; black skinny jeans and a black v-neck, with soft, chunky knit black socks and a large black sweater. They shrugged off the blanket and quickly put the outfit on, before the cold could catch up to them and wiggle inside their bones.

After they were done dressing, they walked to the kitchen, running their left hand along the wall as they went. There was something nice about the smoothness of the paint on the wall under their fingers, something calming about just feeling it. It did nothing to lift their mood that was already as soggy as the leaves outside, but it stilled their heart slightly.

Anthony opened the mini-fridge, then closed it again almost instantly. It was too cold. They opened their cabinets, each one slowly and in turn, searching for something to munch on for breakfast, but they were all empty. They walked over to the other side of their kitchen, that held the trash can, and briefly wondered about eating the rotten apple before deciding that even they, starving and unwilling to step outside, wouldn’t cross that line.

Their phone, stuck half-hanging out of their pocket, buzzed. A text.

_Aziraphale: Dear, would you like to lunch with me today? I’m free at eleven. Yours, Aziraphale_

_Crowley: why do u text like ur writing me a letter with a fountain pen by candlelight?_

_Aziraphale: Because that’s what I’d rather be doing. Yours, Aziraphale_

Anthony very nearly blushed. Luckily or unluckily, depending on how you look at it, he was a wonder at denial and managed to convince himself that this was simply Aziraphale being Aziraphale, not any attempt at flirtation.

_Crowley: wanna come over to my place now? Calling in sick to work today_

_Aziraphale: Are you lying to your boss? Yours, Aziraphale_

Crowley snickered at the pure reproach somehow communicated flawlessly through a simple text.

_Crowley: yea, what else is new_

_Aziraphale: May I demand you to tell me why? Yours, Aziraphale_

_Crowley: ill explain if you come over_

_Aziraphale: Fine. But this is not to be used as a precedent! I expect you will never do this again. Yours, Aziraphale_

_Crowley: :thumbsup:_

Aziraphale arrived five minutes later with two crepes and two coffees and he looked like he was trying not to smile, half his mouth partially down turned and half of it up.

“I hope you don’t mind, I brought some food. You seem like the type that doesn’t have breakfast enough,” Aziraphale said, his voice warm and clear, startling against the morning that Anthony had had so far.

“S’good,” they muttered. Then, quietly, so Aziraphale wouldn’t hear: “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem, my dear,” Aziraphale said back, matching their volume, and they ran their hands through their tangled hair, trying to act calm. Trying to relieve running their fingers over the wall. Trying to keep their heart from going too fast, because none of this would matter when they left. None of this mattered now, either. Aziraphale didn’t love them like they loved Aziraphale. Aziraphale was just kind. He just got to know people because he could, because making them happy made him happy. He was just Aziraphale, angel of the human realm.

Anthony pulled out a stool from the island for Aziraphale, then one for themself.

“Let’s eat, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, then sat down and pinned Anthony with a stare that could freeze the President in their tracks. “Now, would you like to tell me why you’re lying to your boss?”

Anthony rolled their eyes. “You’re not my keeper, Aziraphale,” they muttered, but sat down and grabbed a crepe and began to talk anyways.

“Listen, it’s simple. I am a weird person, right? Kinda strange. S’me. So I have strange habits and feelings about things. One of those is rain and cold and fog. I hate it. It makes my body hurt and feel weak, and it makes me depressed. I don’t want to see those… stupid plants like this. They deserve my whole self. I can’t work on them with my whole self if I’m distracted by feeling sick and bad and wanting to jump off the nearest cliff. So whenever it rains, I don’t go in. It’s not like I take pleasure in it, but it’s just… what I do.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and stayed still, his breathing quiet, and Crowley wondered if he was about to leave. If Crowley had finally pissed him off or weirded him out enough that he was going to rid himself of them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice unexpectedly velvet. “That makes _sense_. You could just say that to your boss.”

Anthony laughed through their frown. “Right. And get fired because she’ll totally believe that. Even if she does, somehow, it’s not like she’ll think I’m normal anymore. She’ll get weirded out.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Why does it matter what she thinks of you? You’ll be gone in two weeks, anyway, and she doesn’t matter. The only person whose opinion of you matters is your own. Anthony Crowley, you’re you, and I think that anyone who doesn’t think that’s enough should just… oh, I don’t know. Go fuck themselves.”

Crowley felt their back stiffen. There was something big and hopeful in the sudden blue of Aziraphale eyes. “Why are you so sweet?”

“I told you, my parents raised me that way. Kindness is my policy.”

“No,” Anthony said, shaking their head harshly. “I mean why to me? I’ve heard you talk to other people before, a little. You speak to me like I’m special, though. You’re so… good to me. And I wish you would just cut it out.”

Aziraphale scooted back, stood up, and grabbed his coat from where he’d draped it over the island counter. Crowley winced, before words were even out of his mouth. They knew what was coming. “I’m sorry the way I interact with you is so terrible, _Anthony._ Perhaps I should just leave you alone.” He took a step toward the door, then turned his head around to look once more at Crowley, to pin him with a different kind of stare than before. If Anthony’d been a little bit more perceptive, they might have noticed the little teardrop jewel at the corner of one of Aziraphale’s eyes. “Have a splendid life.”

“I will,” Crowley murmured. “And when I’m off on my road trip, I swear I’ll never even think about you.”

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked, arching one of his eyebrows primly and pursing his lips.

“I said, I will have a abso-fucking-loutely splendid life without you! And when I am off on my gap year road trip of a life time, I won’t even _think_ about you or your stupid little kindnesses!” Crowley shouted, their throat clenching. It had been a long time since they yelled like this. With so much emotion.

Aziraphale turned around, and as he opened the door Crowley thought he could almost hear him choke out “I forgive you,” through tears, but they were probably just imagining things. No way Aziraphale’d be crying over them.

Crowley got up, locked the door, and picked up the crepes. They paced between the two sides of their kitchen, finally settling on shoving the box in the fridge. They sat back down on a stool and put their head in their hands, wondering vaguely if this was going to hurt more or less than before.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been two weeks since Crowley had last talked to Aziraphale.

It had been bad.

There was nothing else to say about the stretch of time. Bad. It was the only word that got it, really. Anthony's two week period at his job had ended two days ago, and he'd spent most of yesterday developing a meticulously planned routine to distract him from the creeping sense of dread he'd had in his stomach ever since Aziraphale left. He'd taken, by now, to wearing chunky black sweaters and large black pants no matter what gender he felt like to combat that terrible chill that rode in on the back of Summer. 

Her embers were flickering out, and it was time for Autumn to breath their serene frost into the wind. Anthony hated it.

Anthony hated everything.

Nothing seemed sweet anymore. Nothing seemed good. He'd tried to eat a hard candy the other day, and it just tasted like a rock. He'd barely been eating, the taste was hard to stomach. Everything tasted like some disgusting form of nature - salad like dead leaves, potatoes like dirt, meat like it was raw. Water was the only liquid he could take, and even that he only drank at certain times during the day.

He was at the end of his rope. He'd straightened his naturally wild curls and cut what used to be down to his waist so it was a little below his shoulders. His mind hadn't even processed the change. He still saw the same thing when he looked in the mirror; he saw his gaunt cheekbones and slowly blinking eyes.

Crowley got up that morning with one thing on his mind, like he had most mornings since two weeks. The crepes. He dressed in a heavy sweater and heavy pants, and walked barefoot to the fridge and opened the door. He looked down at the crepes. He closed the door and wondered if he was going to eat breakfast. He wondered vaguely, as he sat down on the stool he always sat on, what Aziraphale had meant when he said that Crowley looked like the type not to eat breakfast often enough. He walked over to his phone, where it lay facedown on the couch from last night. He picked it up and put on Pale Blue Eyes. What else was there to do, than lie on the couch and think about Aziraphale?

"I should say sorry," he muttered to himself, and nearly slapped his own mouth. Traitor. He wasn't wrong, though. It was his fault they got into a fight. Both of them could've handled it better, but he started it.

Before he could stop his hands, he was dialing that divine, that holy, that perfect man's number and blinking back tears, biting his cheek. Clenching his free hand against the fabric of the couch.

He listened to the ring, once, then twice, then three times.

It went silent.

The doorbell rang.

"Coming," Crowley said. There was no way the person on the other side of the door could've heard him, but he could barely hear himself. Aziraphale had rejected his call. They... they weren't friends anymore, it would seem.

Anthony stood and dropped his phone on the couch. He walked like he was in water, slowly, through the space that was between him and the door. He undid the chain and turned the knob. He blinked slowly, slowly.

He blinked again when he saw Aziraphale in front of him. He blinked harder, screwing his eyes shut. It was a dream. It had to be a dream.

"Anthony," Aziraphale said, and then Crowley knew it wasn't a dream because nothing he made in his head could sound as sweet as that man's voice. He opened his eyes, and for the last time his traitor of a mouth spoke.

"Angel."

Aziraphale's eyes widened, and then they were kissing.

It was simple, simpler than anything had ever been before. Easier than knowing he wanted to study stars. Easier than being sad. Easier than breath. It was better, too. Crowley wondered dimly why he hadn't been doing this for his whole life. Why he hadn't known Aziraphale forever, why they hadn't been saying sorry forever in every way they could. Aziraphale pushed Anthony up against the closest wall and Anthony tangled his fingers through Aziraphale's short hair, and Aziraphale's lips were soft and warm, warm like a beam of sunlight. The whole thing, the kissing, having Aziraphale's body pressed up against his, it was like the feeling you get seeing a picture of a cat sleeping in sunshine. It was nice.

That was the word in Crowley's brain. Nice.

Anthony put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and pushed him away, just slightly. Just a nudge. He didn't want Aziraphale any farther away than that.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said.

"My dear," Aziraphale replied, and Crowley could feel it beneath his skin.

"M'sorry, angel," he said, and Aziraphale nodded, blushing slightly and giving him this small, pursed lip smile. "When I said I wanted you to stop being so kind to me... s'not.. well, it was, but I was hurting. I was in pain because I didn't know you liked me... like kissing me. Wanted to be with me." Crowley paused, and Aziraphale stood there patiently, hands on Crowley's arms. "That is what this is, right?"

"Of course," Aziraphale said, immediately. His grey green eyes went wide as he said it, like maybe he was realizing something wonderful. Anthony let out a small breath. "My dear, I need to apologize as well... I may have overreacted a small bit. I was scared, you must understand. It's funny, really," he said, and gave a little sharp laugh that didn't sound very humorous at all. "Do you remember what I said about my grandparents?" Anthony nodded. "They found out I was fr-"

"Aziraphale, don't say fraternizing. It makes us sound like gay lovers from the twenties," Crowley interjected, rolling his eyes and trying to keep a dumb smile off his face. 

His angel, he thought, had the most ridiculous idea of what passed as normal English. It was adorable.

Aziraphale frowned a little bit, but Anthony could see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Those lips that he'd finally kissed. Adorable lips.

"Oh, shush," Aziraphale said, batting his hand against Crowley's arm. Crowley wrapped his arms around all of Aziraphale and pulled the man, his angel, into his embrace so Aziraphale's head rested against his chest. "I can hear your heartbeat," he murmured, closing his eyes. Crowley could feel his breath soft through his sweater. "Have you got a little brook in your heart, where bashful flowers blow? And blushing birds go down to drink, and shadows tremble so?" Aziraphale said, his voice still nothing but a murmur, but the cadence of his words like water, pouring over each other with ease. Crowley was silent for a long while, trying to think what Aziraphale meant by that, when he spoke again. "Emily Dickinson, my dear."

"My heart is ever at your service," Anthony said back, and Aziraphale smiled. "Shakespeare, angel. Anyways, what was it you were saying?"

"Ah," Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. "Right. My grandparents, well, they..." Crowley could feel Aziraphale grip his sweater a little tighter, as if in need of comfort, so Crowley squeezed him. "They found out about me. Who I really am. They... well, I suppose I shouldn't say. I don't have any evidence, but the bookshop, well it... b-burned. I think they did it on purpose." There was a crack in Aziraphale's voice, fragile and sad. Crowley remembered how he sounded just at the thought of selling his books. He must be completely torn up.

"So it's like, all gone?"

"I'm afraid so," was the soft reply.

A long pause. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything. Our stupid fight. Not explaining myself better. Not telling you things sooner. Your bookshop."

"Not yours to be sorry for," Aziraphale sighed. "Remember, you said that to me when we first met?"

Crowley rested his chin on Aziraphale's head and sighed, long and low. "Remember how I said I'd beat up your grandparents? I will. Let me at 'em. I'll screw those fuckers over. I'll go to prison, but it'd be worth it if you visited me."

Aziraphale laughed dryly, then hiccuped and pressed a hand over his mouth.

"Let's go sit," Crowley murmured, and lead Aziraphale over to the couch in his living room. He took Aziraphale's hand and helped him sit down, then sat down himself. They were wonderfully close together. Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale's shoulders and Aziraphale slumped over into him. Before Anthony knew what was happening, Aziraphale was halfway in his lap and shaking with tiny sobs. Anthony stroked his back calmly as they slowly grew into bigger and bigger sobs. They earthquaked through his angel's whole body, and his heart hurt. He remembered when he had wanted to cry like that, what it felt like and why.After a few minutes Aziraphale's tears began to slow down until all that was left was his glistening cheeks and big eyes. He looked at Crowley suddenly, his whole face glowing.

"How soon are you leaving?"


	7. Chapter 7

They were leaving for the open highways in three days.

They hadn't left each other's presence since Aziraphale had told Crowley his bookshop got burned down. Crowley didn't want to, and if Aziraphale's falling asleep in his arms (like an angel, he looked like an angel as he slept) was anything to go by neither did he. They sat together all through the night. The hours were long and quiet, stretching long past sixty minutes, long past a day. Every second was a year. Each hour was practically an eternity. For some strange reason, Crowley didn't mind at all. He'd always been bad at sleep, but this, this was okay. He wished he could somehow make a miracle happen and put a blanket over them. But if there was one person he'd always sit out in the cold with, it was Aziraphale.

"Angel," he murmured. "D'you know how big my heart is when I see you? It's big like the universe, and you know what's special about that? The universe, it's always expanding. Always going forward. That's what you do to my heart. You fill me with so much... so much love, angel, I'm in love, that my heart just has to keep getting bigger. Else I'd explode. That's kinda what I did without you. Last two weeks, didn't wanna say while you were awake 'cause you were having a rough time, but they were awful. Just..." Crowley blinked, trying to keep tears from running, but they didn't listen. He couldn't even wipe them away, because his arms and hands were filled Aziraphale, still sleeping peacefully. He looked happy. Crowley smiled, a soft sharp smile, without any teeth. He let the tears run, didn't even try to stop them now. There wasn't a point. No one around to yell at him for feeling. "Terrible. I never want that again. But I love you. My God, I love you. Angel, you're like summer. You're like spring. I'm the Earth and you're the Sun, and every time I see you it's like spring. I start to grow. I can feel my breath get easier. No room for the ice in my lungs when all you are is warmth." Crowley's heart stuttered when he said love. Crowley's heart was going to give out if he kept going like this. His eye twitched, just a little bit. He took in a small breath and let it out quickly, closing his eyes for just a moment. Just long enough for his body to stop feeling like it was under attack. "I can't stand not talking to you, now that I've had a taste. It feels natural, y'know? It feels right. My God, what am I even mumbling about. You're everything. I don't know how you got so... so like, vital to me, so quickly, but you did! You're the thing in my life... the thing I wouldn't leave behind. I was never going to leave without you. I wasn't going to have a splendid life without you. I was going to... I don't know. You're the one thing that matters, Aziraphale. And I know you can't hear this, but I can't say it to your face. That's too much, too soon. I know I'm too much. But with you, s'like I said. My heart is like the universe. I can't keep this all inside me. You make me weak. I love you."

If Crowley had he not been dancing on the border of sleep himself, he might've noticed that his angel's eyes fluttered open for a stolen moment as he began to speak.

  
Crowley woke up first in the morning. He loved this idea, that he would wake up first every morning they were together, make Aziraphale a sweet breakfast and a sweet coffee (if he didn't happened to be trapped under the other man as he was right now), he'd make sure to memorize the recipes of every pastry his angel liked. He watched Aziraphale, reminding himself of his face, all the falls and rises, the way he breathed. There was a little sunlight pouring through a window off to the left, and it illuminated his hair in such a way that it was like a halo. It glowed. Crowley laughed out loud, threw his head back, grinning like it was the fourth of July and he loved fireworks. Grinning like this would never end.

If he could help it, this wouldn't.

He watched his apartment fill with morning light. He watched the darkness and the shadows that tended to swarm the place grow light and fade away. He looked up and the spiders who he'd seen building cobwebs were gone. He looked all around; the place seemed different. He looked down at Aziraphale, who'd woken up as he was watching the room change, smiling softly at him. He smiled softly back, said something about going to that coffee shop for breakfast, and realized he was different. Maybe he'd just never been able to see the sunlight before.

"That sounds wonderful, my dear," Aziraphale replied, yawning and rubbing his eyes with his hands. "Did I fall asleep on you?"

"Yeah." Crowley grinned again, and it was big and all his teeth showed. Aziraphale watched as his serpent's eyes filled with light. He noticed for the first time that they were a startling amber color, something he'd never seen before.

"I'm sorry. I love your eyes."

"It's okay. I love you."

Aziraphale stopped, his eyes going wide, that little crease forming like it does. Crowley felt himself fall in love for the 389th time since meeting Aziraphale. He wasn't, he was surprised to find out, scared anymore about what Aziraphale would do. I love you. That was it. That was his hand. Then Aziraphale's face softened into that little look he gives you when you've just said something kind, or picked up his book for him, and smiled.

"I love you too, my Anthony. Darling. You're my everything, too."

Crowley frowned, because he'd said that last night-

"Oh. You... you heard that?"

Aziraphale nodded, then broke out into the most shit-eating grin Crowley had ever seen. "It was beautiful, dear. You should write poetry."

All Crowley could do was laugh, then shake his head. "My angel has a naughty side. Let's go get that breakfast now, alright?"

Aziraphale smiled softer now, then nodded. "Alright. Just so you know, everything you said, I feel that too. Right back at you. And I don't think I would be surviving my bookshop's untimely destruction if it weren't for you, foul fiend."

The coffee tasted particularly good to Crowley that morning.


End file.
